


The Things We Don’t Ask For

by shy_violet_soul



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:48:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shy_violet_soul/pseuds/shy_violet_soul
Summary: I’ve lived my life standing on my own two feet. It doesn’t occur to me to ask for anything. But, just because I carry it well doesn’t mean my burdens aren’t heavy.
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Reader, Tom Hiddleston/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	The Things We Don’t Ask For

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: this is pure selfish daydreaming. Introvert that I am, I miss hugs and casual affectionate touches during this time of keeping my dear ones safe. This one goes out to all of us who fight the good fight every day, all on our own.
> 
> A/N 2: A very huge and very appreciative thank you hugs to the amazing @thesassywallflower for beta-ing this for me. Your feedback is so valued! Also, I’m experimenting with a different writing style inspired by the incredible @nacho-bucky. Thank you for giving this a read, and for sharing your art with us. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction. Please do not copy my work without my written consent.

I’m tired. 

My body sinks like a broken anchor. My joints sit heavy, fatigue tiding into my limbs in mild aches. I feel the waves only distantly, the strain a susurrus I’m used to. When my brain is busy, navigating the gyres and currents of my day, I don’t notice it. But now, with idleness sudden and loud in my head, I feel every creak as I settle into the depths of a ridiculously comfortable sofa. 

Comforting sounds of putzing from the kitchen snap me back from tempting, drowsy depths. The friendly click click click of claws on the floor tug a smile free as a happy black snout plops on my leg. 

“Hey, there, Bobby!” The pup’s silky black ears are magic, siphoning stress right out of my fingertips as I happily scritch and stroke. My smile swells wider as the goodest good boy groans before he leaps up next to me. Canine kisses catch me chin to cheek, loosing giggles from me as I turn only enough to keep the black Cocker Spaniel from licking my mouth or eyeball. 

“Oh, my Lord! Bobby, leave that poor girl alone!” Warmth waves into my chest in the wake of that deep voice, and Bobby laps half in my nose because I’m following my smile up, up into his blue eyes. The freedom I give myself now to dive deep into his gaze still nearly takes my breath. 

_Settled comfortably in a leather chair, a cup of chai steamed cheer in spice-scented whisps at my elbow as I organized my work. Pattern and pink highlighter on the table, I let the in-progress baby blanket cascade in velvet folds under my hands. Dangling earbud cords hung an invisible ‘do not disturb’ sign. The magpie chatter of my Monday through Friday left me wrung out and empty of words by week’s end, and the only conversation I often felt up to_ _was my chai order and a passing smile. I craved the silent slide of needles and yarn, letting them disconnect my brain so I could refill my words.  
_

_Sunshine lighting the work in my lap, I snuggled happily into the cracked leather and let the clatter and whistle fade behind the soothing cello notes of my Piano Guys station. Stitches whiled away a half hour before movement caught the corner of my eye. Without looking up, I spied dark navy jeans and men’s black boots. Just above, long fingered hands cradled a_ _leather-bound notebook, a paperback, and a steaming mug. With a quick glance, I watched him look about the seating area. I recognized the downcast eyes and tucked-in chin of a fellow chit chat dodger. Unwilling to invite conversation but empathetic to his plight, I shifted my cup-and-saucered treat to the side and slid my pattern beside me. Silent permission to sit in peace. Leather toes pointed my way, paused, then tucked themselves beneath the table. Another steaming cup joined mine, and I heard the squeak of leather over the piano in my ears as he accepted the comfort of my corner. Studiously avoiding his gaze and clinging to my quiet, I kept on. An hour and three more carefully knitted rows later, I rolled my head_ _around and back, cracking the tiny joints before I held the work up in front of me. Fuschia, tangerine, and blush wove together into a lacy blanket, perfect for my neighbor’s baby girl due in a few months. Plenty of time to finish the half-done work. My pride still crinkling my eyes, I scooted the work safely away from the needle ends and paused in mid-reach for my long-cold chai.  
_

_My corner mate sat transfixed, chin resting on his hand as his book and notebook sat ignored in his lap. When he caught my glance, he straightened up and smiled. The brilliance of his blue eyes set me blinking, like I’d looked up at the bright summer sky after too many dim hours indoors. He gestured towards the blanket_ _and I obligingly pulled my earbuds free, a fleeting lance of recognition prodding at me as he sat forward.  
_

_“I’m sorry to bother you, but this is quite stunning. Did you do all that yourself?”  
_

_“Thank you. I did.” As if he couldn’t stop himself, he gingerly fingered the end of the blanket.  
_

_“My word, that is soft. I had no idea they made yarn like this. Is this to be a blanket?”  
_

_“Yes, a baby blanket. It’s velvet yarn. I didn’t know they made it, either, I found it by accident.”  
_

_“A baby blanket? Am I to offer you congratulations?”  
_

_“No, it’s for my neighbor. She and her husband and daughter are expecting a baby girl.”  
_

_He introduced himself a few moments later, and I let him think I didn’t know who he was. Before I knew it, an hour went by, then two. Never once did I scrooge over my lost quiet, because it never felt lost. Instead, I found myself seen like I’d never been before. Something butterflied in my belly at a man’s undivided attention. New, alien, I ignored it as I treated him with friendliness, courtesy.  
_

_I figured Master Thomas Hiddleston got precious little of the last._

A chance chat turned into a hoped-for encounter as Tom adorably lurked about the coffee shop, fingers crossed for my return the next Saturday. Lunch, a few dinners, and a host of text messages later, and I bemusedly refused the idea that this man was dating me. And yet, weeks later, I’m sitting on his couch. As he breezes a kiss to me, my lips tingle and the same butterflies swirl up in my belly. He places a tray on the coffee table, urging Bobby to settle as he hunts the remote. My gaze lands on the tray, and my buoyed spirit bobbles. 

Cheerfully stacked planks of vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate wafer cookies, and I can already taste the sugared crumbs of my favorite treat on my fingers. Rose and cardamom brume curling above a cup unveil my favorite tea, from a shop over 2 hours away. Fragments of conversation that I had innocently tossed, casual detritus on a course I didn’t know he charted.

“Alright now, darling, I found that film you mentioned. The one with Emma Samms and Denis Lawson. I’d no idea he was in this film. I remember watching ‘Bleak House’ on BBC, I thought his performance…” As he lifts a DVD case aloft, his words become a distant, burbled fog. I sharply swallow down the sudden wind wave of tears at the repeated realization I still cannot grasp.

He sees me.

I’ve built my life without a lighthouse. Journeyed contentedly under the steam of an unheard sonar, the pings of a heartbeat happy on its own. My compass crafted carefully, each tear-salt rusted edge a hard-won victory over a map blanked by friendly coupled flocks. I waved them off, bittersweet when unanswered amid their own journeys. Never seen. Never bothered. Never asking. 

But he sees me.

The truth of it all at once overwhelms and undercuts me. Swelling, then sinking, I feel as if my broken-anchor body cracks, sloughing off coats of salty red as oxygen leaves me. Faintly, Tom’s voice distinguishes back into words as I secretly flounder before him.

“...found it on some obscure website aptly called ‘eCrater’. I’ll have to return to it and see what other titles they may have in...love, are you alright?” 

Two sets of puppy dog eyes regard me now, and the warmth of his hand on mine cuts loose a sob. Horror chases after it, and I dive to hide in my lap. So used to being unseen, the suddenness of the tender focus spotlighting me has me cold and quaking. Even as I sink, though, a mooring. His bulk steadies before me as he kneels. His warmth settles about me as he wraps me up in strength, unfamiliar in the lending. A hundred hushed comforts croon into my ears, and every attempt I make to seize onto some control slips away with each endearment.

“Oh, darling! Love, what’s wrong? Has something happened? It’s alright, it’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Exhausted, enraptured, I let myself drift. The scent of his soap zephyrs through me, the drag of his long fingers against my scalp a drug I drag in deep and greedily. So blissfully, brokenly free am I in that moment, I don’t resist when his warm hands urge my salt-fogged gaze up to his.

“What is it? What can I do?” he implores. The words cast off before I can stop them.

“You’re so nice.” Confusion crinkles a line between his brows as he strokes my hair behind my ear. 

“This a problem? My being nice?” A watery chuckle croaks from me. How to make him understand? Fear of looking pathetic closes my throat with anxiety, but when he presses a kiss to my forehead, the warmth of it shuts my eyes. His clear affection for me - me - tides through and through, and the hungerings I’ve hidden for a lifetime are helpless but to rise and meet him. Fear and freedom tremble in my fingers as I raise them to trace his brow, his cheek, settling hesitant against his jaw.

“No, not a problem. I’m just...not used to being remembered.” 

His concerned gaze softens now, the heaviness of worry lightening. 

“My darling girl. You’d best become accustomed to me remembering you.” Caring strokes right through me from his fingertips along my face, and dizzying heat pours in from his kiss on mine. Fresh tears sting salty beneath my eyes as I feel his heart beat beneath my hands. The giddying swirls in my belly from the slight drag of his lips against me, the clutch of his arms in my esurient hands. This receiving, this giving, this freedom is a siren call I’ve never dreamed of. 

“Now - we are going - to enjoy this film,” Tom starts, kisses dashing his words and dotting my face. “We are going - to drink - our tea, you are going to devour the biscuits, and I,” and his voice drowns me in its sudden depth, “may just devour you.” 

The dizzy butterflies unleash a delirious giggle from my middle. The rasp of his calloused thumbs sweeping away my tears brings on a fresh wave. But they sparkle in the trying sunshine of my smile. Tom growls playfully under my chin before moving to get the movie started, then groans when he turns back to see Bobby has taken his spot beside me. Puppy whimpers and gentle scolds filter in with the opening sequence of a 90s British whodunit story, tugging my smile wider. As Tom settles in beside me, shyness struggles amid the butterflies. 

“Can we snuggle?” I whisper the request, my newfound surety soft as sand, but still solid enough to hold me. Tom answers me with outstretched arms and a smile bright enough to turn the tide. I dive in, nestle down, clasp him close. 

Unseen, I feel his smile against my forehead. Unbothered, the movements of him shifting us to lay down hardly register. Unasking, we luxuriate in the quiet affection of soft touches and contented sighs. 

And my broken-anchor body drifts away.


End file.
